4 “Our Lady of Pity” is the designation usually applied to the Virgin when she is shown seated with the corpse of Christ on her knees.  Michael Angelo’s famous group at St. Peter’s is commonly known by this name.  In the present instance, however, Queen Margaret undoubtedly refers to a crucifix showing the Virgin at the foot of the Cross, contemplating her son’s sufferings.  Such crucifixes were formerly not uncommon.—­M.

The hour of his departure arrived, and when he had taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, and came to bid his lady farewell, he beheld tears standing in her eyes by reason of the honourable affection which she entertained for him.  The sight of these rendered his passion for her so unendurable that, not daring to say anything concerning it, he almost fainted, and broke out into an exceeding sweat, so that he seemed to weep not only with his eyes, but with his entire body.  And thus he departed without speaking, leaving the lady in great astonishment, for she had never before seen such tokens of regret.  Nevertheless she did not change in her good opinion of him, and followed him with her prayers.

After a month had gone by, however, as the lady was returning to her house, she met a gentleman who handed her a letter from the Captain, and begged her to read it in private.

He told her how he had seen the Captain embark, fully resolved to accomplish whatever might be pleasing to the King and of advantage to Christianity.  For his own part, the gentleman added, he was straightway going back to Marseilles to set the Captain’s affairs in order.

The lady withdrew to a window by herself, and opening the letter, found it to consist of two sheets of paper, covered on either side with writing which formed the following epistle:—­

     “Concealment long and silence have, alas! 
     Brought me all comfortless to such a pass,
     That now, perforce, I must, to ease my grief,
     Either speak out, or seek in death relief. 
     Wherefore the tale I long have left untold
     I now, in lonely friendlessness grown bold,
     Send unto thee, for I must strive to say
     My love, or else prepare myself to slay. 
     And though my eyes no longer may behold
     The sweet, who in her hand my life doth hold,
     Whose glance sufficed to make my heart rejoice,
     The while my ear did listen to her voice,—­
     These words at least shall meet her beauteous eyes,
     And tell her all the plaintive, clamorous cries
     Pent in my heart, to which I must give breath,
     Since longer silence could but bring me death. 
     And yet, at first, I was in truth full fain
     To blot the words I’d written out again,
     Fearing, forsooth, I might offend thine ear
     With foolish phrases which, when thou wast near,
     I dared not utter; and ‘Indeed,’ said I,
     ’Far better pine